


Scratching Post

by Grimmy88



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick, Ellis, and a kitten</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratching Post

            “I’m sorry; remind me again what the hell you’re doing?” Nick asked, glancing over both the rim of his glasses and the newspaper he’d attempted to hide behind.

            Ellis, tongue out and curled about the side of his top lip, lifted his head enough to see out from under the brim of his hat.

            There was a soft mewl from his lap.

            “I’m gettin’ him’ta… relieve himself.”

            The gambler set the paper down to watch the little, gray kitten squirm away from the wet cloth the southerner was rubbing over its… places. It gave a ‘mrow’ this time and finally twisted free, landing on its front paws and springing with its back ones to bolt behind Nick’s leather chair.

            “What?” The older man peeled his glasses from his face, folding them within the confines of his palm. He continued to watch the chair, untrusting of the tiny animal and its tiny claws near his beloved leather.

            “I read it online,” Ellis explained as he rose and circled around the chair, causing the little fuzz ball to hop up onto it in evasion. “They don’t know’ta go on their own so their ma licks ‘em an’ they go.”

            “She licks them?”

            His lover nodded.

            “Wait.” Nick drew in a breath to elevate some of the tightness in his shoulders. It did nothing to relieve him of the twitching in his eyebrow. “She _licks_ her kid’s asshole to get them to take a dump?”

            “Yeah, I dunno why it works but, uh, it definitely works.”

            Leaning back with his paper, Nick crossed his ankle over the top of his knee and readjusted his gaze on the black print folded in front of him. “You read that off the internet, you don’t know that for sure.”

            “Nah, I’m pretty sure it works.”

            And when he worked up enough courage to look, sure enough, there was a nice, moist pile of shit curled up on his expensive, leather chair.

 

 

            They’d found the moving lump of fur outside of their apartment building. In fact Nick, apparently, had almost reduced it to a very flat pile of gray and gore with the wheel of his BMW. That was probably bullshit since it had come from Ellis’ mouth, but still, they’d found the thing near the inside of the car’s tire and, at the hick’s insistence, brought it inside.

            Colorful, hastily made signs went up next asking the owner to claim the tiny moocher but after several days there was no reclaiming. Their second option had been to try and give it away to one of their neighbors. They’d come really close with one of the mothers on their floor as her two young children had fallen in love with the shit-machine.

            Unfortunately the next day it had been returned by a glaring mother, alerting them, repeatedly, to the puffiness of her son’s face.

            Their only other hope lived on the first floor in the form of Mrs. Gordon, a widowed eighty-something who had an apartment full of her own fuzz balls: three cats, a dog, some fish, and he was pretty sure she was the culprit of the insanely loud parrot call in the early hours of the morning. Not that they noticed anymore, but immunity happens, he knew. Besides, calling the cops on some old lady was as shitty as a person could get.

            So far Ellis hadn’t let the feline leave their apartment.

            Which pissed Nick off enough in itself.

            What pissed him off more, of course, was coming home to find that, finally, _finally_ , the cat had learned to go into the litter box, which should have made the day one of celebration as far as he was concerned. However, on the way to the metaphorical party Nick came across several small, dusty paw prints leading from his goddamn leather chair _again_ , over the coffee table, across the wood of the floor, and all the way back into the bathroom where the shit-box had been placed.

            Oh, and of course, all that grainy, sparkling sand that was supposed to be a godsend because of its ability to mask the smell (which really didn’t as far the conman was concerned) had been kicked everywhere, around the toilet, under the sink, and for the love of everything sacred if it was in the damn bathtub he was going to test that feet-landing theory from the roof.

           

            He’d just spread the hick’s legs, angled them back enough to see his target, when that target’s owner laughed. Nick held his legs still through the wave-like tremors of his chuckle while waiting for their eyes to meet.

            “What?”

            “Ya forgot’ta shut the door,” Ellis informed him while reaching to scoop up the bumbling thing with his free hand. “Coach got in.”

            “Don’t pick it—wait.” Nick didn’t even bother to attempt a calming breath, he just let those muscular legs slap back down to the bed. “You named it Coach.”

            The southerner grinned a grin that failed to be the level of sheepishness Nick would’ve accepted. “Well, ‘cause he was tryin’ta eat chocolate that one time.”

            Letting three seconds pass, the ex-con pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back on his haunches. “I hate you, so much.”

            “C’mon, Nick, he ain’t that bad.” The bed shifted and, unbelievably, the miniscule weight transmitted through four pressure-point paws settled on his shoulder.

            “Get it off me before I throw it off.”

            “You wouldn’t,” Ellis said. “An’ be nice, he-kin tell when yer cranky.”

            Cranky was an understatement and, knowing that opening his eyes and seeing this ridiculous sight would only make matters worse, the gambler reached up, blindly, gripping at the kitten’s back a lot softer than the little fucker deserved.

            Unfortunately ‘Coach’ didn’t appreciate that and to counteract the pull he dug in with his tiny, curled claws right into Nick’s shoulders. Right into the skin like little hooks and, even without looking, the ex-con knew his skin lifted with the movement.

            And the only thing that stopped him from throwing the little clawed bastard out the window was every pound of Ellis’ weight jumping onto his back and dragging him to the floor.

 

            It happened around the time Ellis was supposed to come home from work. Nick had just exited the shower, knowing that the kid would want to take one right when he got home considering their plans to go out that night.

            The gambler had wrapped his towel around his waist in order to cross the hallway into his room. He’d been stopped by the sight of ‘Coach’ positioned at the end of the hallway, right at the opening of the front room.

            “Alright, you spawn of Satan, what’d you do?”

            The kitten made no sound, it just stared, wobbled a little, and stared some more. When Nick took a step towards him he slid forward to stretch out his tiny body and yawned. And feeling insulted by a cat’s yawn would’ve been embarrassing if, say, he gave two flying fucks.

            He took another step, tempted to whip the towel from around his hips so it would cover the brat and get him wet. Cats hated getting wet after all, right?

            He was about to follow through with the action when the front door opened. Ellis’ cheery voice rolled along the walls of the apartment and ‘Coach’s’ triangular ears perked up and he was bounding towards the young man, out of Nick’s eye-line the next moment.

            And foolishly enough the northerner followed after the small animal, rounding the corner with his mouth open, ready to order the hillbilly to clean up whatever mess the kitten had created when his foot connected with the mess created.

            Or rather _squished_ into the mess created.

            “Oh man,” Ellis announced, mournfully.

            “Tell me I didn’t just step in shit,” Nick ordered from between grinding teeth.

            “Well, that’s easy, ‘cause it ain’t shit.”

            The older survivor opened his eyes and lifted his foot.

            His lover took a breath and announced, very quietly, “it’s cat puke.”

            Nick took one breath through his nostrils, felt his face heat, felt his fists clench, and then he heard Ellis, thumping back out through their front door, ‘Coach’ mewling from within his arms.

            So Nick did the most logical thing he could think of: he locked him out and refused to let him back in until Mrs. Gordon called to confirm that the kitten was, at fucking last, moved into her apartment. So, begrudgingly, he allowed the hick back into their home, satisfied that in some sense, the feline was finally several floors down from his leather chair.


End file.
